


Paradise By The Dashboard Light

by abnosomesouls



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternating fluff and angst, Dean-Centric, Impala Feels, M/M, Road Trips, Schmoop, Smut, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abnosomesouls/pseuds/abnosomesouls
Summary: A series of vignettes starring Dean and Cas (and Sam) and centering around the Impala.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look! I actually finished something!
> 
> This was written disjointedly with very long pauses of time in between, so hopefully it came out well in the end. By the time I finally finished I'd read and re-read it so many times I couldn't tell anymore. *rolls eyes at self*
> 
> Title, of course, from the Meat Loaf song of the same name and which can be found [here](https://youtu.be/C11MzbEcHlw). If you haven't seen it, you should. If you have seen it, go see it again. :)

 

* * *

 

**I.**

The first time Dean kissed Cas it was an otherwise unremarkable day.

A little boring, in fact. They were on the road returning from a hunt with Garth in Missouri, traveling back through the edge of Kansas when Dean decided to stop and find a motel uncharacteristically early in the day. Ever since his ignominious return from Purgatory, Dean has had a whole new appreciation for bright colors and warm light, and the simple change from day to night, season to season, and he tries to indulge himself when he can.

Dean is staring out the slightly filmy window at the mostly-empty motel parking lot, drumming his fingers unconsciously against his thigh and trying not to fidget too obviously. The place isn’t remarkable one way or the other; not the best they’ve stayed in, definitely not the worst. Good enough to have Sam flopping down on the bed closest to the window immediately, tired from the exertion and adrenaline of holding off a surprise attack from eight demons followed by nine hours in the car. Contrary to expectations, the life of a hunter isn’t all that glamorous most of the time.

Dean doesn’t blame his brother for taking the opportunity to catch up on some much-needed rest; in fact, normally he’d be doing the exact same thing, but today he has a more important goal.

He just doesn’t want to do it where his brother can hear, because he’s not exactly sure how this is going to go. His shoulders tense; it’s time.

To that end, he turns to where Cas is seated serenely at the small table in the motel room and asks, “Hey, Cas. Wanna go for a walk?” as casually as he can.

Cas tilts his head slightly as if unsure of the purpose of such a thing, but doesn’t question it as he once would have. Dean’s taught him well. “Yes,” he agrees, and follows Dean out to the parking lot.

Out of habit he heads toward the Impala, mind occupied with how to present his case and not really having anywhere else to go. He doesn’t really want to have to explain himself because that will just lead to some kind of corny scene, but Cas has never been what you would call quick on the uptake when it came to human behaviors so there’s probably going to be some talking required.

Dean sighs, just a bit, resigned. Resolute.

Emoting sucks.

The driver’s door gives a familiar creak as he settles back against it, and he pauses to decide how to begin. The sun is shining through the leaves of a large tree at the edge of the lot, dappled on the ground. A light breeze makes the air comfortable and sends invisible fingers ruffling through Castiel’s hair where he’s moved to face Dean, gently inquisitive, and Dean realizes he hasn’t actually said anything since they came outside. Come to think of it, neither has Cas. They’ve just been walking together, comfortable.

Huh.

Cas is standing directly in front of him, one step too close as usual, head tilted as he waits patiently, eyes tracking warmly over Dean’s features. Dean’s skin hums; he hasn’t been able to shake a constant, low level of want during this whole trip, itching to get closer to Cas and wrap up in him, and unless he’s mistaken there’s something like that same want reflecting back at him right now in the unearthly blue of Castiel’s eyes. Dean clears his throat, shifting his weight.

That certainly makes this easier.

“So, Cas,” Dean begins, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something for a while now.”

“Yes,” Cas replies, only it doesn’t sound like a question. That’s a little weird; but hey, it’s Cas, so.

Nonplussed but not discouraged, Dean continues. “We’ve been friends for a long time now, right?” Cas nods. “You’re my best friend, actually, you know besides Sam and all, really you’re more like family. But not like brothers. And I, uh, well I don’t want to be friends. I mean I do, of course I do,” Dean corrects hastily, “but what I mean is I don’t want us to just be friends because that’s not enough for what I—man, I suck at this,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck and letting out a frustrated breath.

“Yes.”

“Gee, thanks, Cas,” he snarks. He can’t give up, though; there have been too many wasted opportunities already and damned if he’s going to let this one go too. Drawing strength from the hard metal at his back, Dean grips the chrome door handle and soldiers on.

“What I’m trying to say here Cas, is that I think you’re awesome and I love having you around, and not just for your help on hunts, although I gotta say that’s pretty great too, but,” Dean takes a breath and finishes all in a rush, eyes on Cas’s open collar and the little sliver of throat peeking out. “You’re hilarious even when you don’t mean to be and you’re badass and hot and it is so friggin’ cool that I even get to hang out with an angel of the Lord in the first place, but I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and it looks like I’m gonna be this way for a long time so I was hoping you might want to go out on a real date with me and maybe have sex someday. That is, if you’re interested in—”

The verbal diarrhea comes to an abrupt halt when Cas lays his fingers over Dean’s mouth. “Dean.”

Hazarding a glance up at Cas’s face, Dean tries to gauge just how badly he’s dug himself in here. Maddeningly, Cas doesn’t seem to have registered anything he just blurted out. He’s still just standing there, staring at Dean like he’s an adorable retarded puppy or something.

Cas smiles, just a little, and is it Dean’s imagination or did Cas just stroke his upper lip? “Dean,” he says again, deep voice oh-so-familiar. “Yes.”

Dean blinks. He’s having a little trouble processing what he thinks he’s hearing, but… “Yes?”

“Yes,” Cas says again, and this time his eyes crinkle and nope, that is not Dean’s imagination, Cas is most definitely tracing his lips with the pads of his fingers now.

“Yeah?” Dean can’t help but breathe again, teasing now, head spinning giddily as it sinks in that yes, Cas wants him too, wants it all.

Castiel, who was obviously voted Sassiest Angel in the Garrison, rolls his eyes fondly. “Dean.” His gravelly voice is gently chastising, but Dean can hear it now that he knows to listen for it, the undercurrent of _more_. That tone that hints at the vastness of Dean’s feelings for Cas, except it seems—incredibly—Castiel feels the same for him. It’s amazingly humbling, the knowledge that a creature created by the hand of God Himself is in love with him, with Dean Winchester of all people, but it also fills him with a crazy sort of tingling pride.

Feeling braver by the second now that he knows he’s not alone in this, Dean reaches out a finger and curls it through one of Cas’s belt loops. A moment later he mirrors the action with the other hand, grinning dopily as the long fingers fall away from his face. He tugs lightly and Castiel obliges by moving closer, standing between Dean’s legs and resting his hands on Dean’s biceps. Dean searches Cas’s face one last time for any sign of hesitation.

Finding none, he nevertheless murmurs, “This all right, Cas?” while still pulling his friend closer.

Castiel settles against Dean’s chest and rolls his eyes again, harder this time. Clearly done with Dean’s glacial pace, Cas slides one hand up over Dean’s shoulder to cup the back of his head and smoothly brings their mouths together in a kiss.

Apparently, the angel’s learned a few things.

The light suction of Cas’s mouth instantly makes Dean want more, but they have plenty of time for all that later. For now it’s enough to know that, although he didn’t say it in so many words, Cas loves him back. Sinking into the kiss, Dean slides his arms as far as he can around Cas’s back and hugs him close. Their bodies are pressed together from chests to thighs now and Dean can feel Cas’s fluttering heartbeat against his own. Dexterous hands have come up to frame his face at some point and Cas sighs, fingers sliding over Dean’s ears and into the short hairs at the back of his head. Plush lips press wetly to Dean’s as he explores Castiel’s mouth and coaxes the angel’s tongue into his own, sucking lightly, entranced by the velvety texture. He hums in pleasure when Cas scratches lightly at the back of his head and leans further back against the window so Cas rests more fully on him as one kiss blurs into another, and they cling together for long minutes.

Cas presses several more kisses to his lips before drawing back slightly, mouth shiny, looking angelically concerned at Dean’s dazed air.

“Are you okay, Dean?”

Dean can’t help the silly grin on his face, feeling lightness flood him until he could almost float away with it. “Yeah Cas, just peachy.”

He slips his arms underneath the trench coat and greedily pulls Cas in for another kiss, while bright sunshine glints off the windshield.

 

**II.**

Dean is scared.

It feels like he’s been scared for an awful long time, but it’s still mostly dark out so he isn’t really sure. He can’t quite crane his neck high enough to see over the Impala’s backseat to check the big clock on its dashboard— _she_ , he reminds himself, _the ’pala is a she_ —but he wouldn’t be able to read it even if he could. Mommy only just started teaching him his letters and numbers, so he would be a big smart boy when he started kindergarten this fall. He’s so excited to start school, so he can make lots of friends and learn all about owls and sharks and draw more pretty pictures so Mommy can put them up on the refrigerator.

…Only now Mommy’s not here, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Dean sniffles pitifully. He hasn’t seen her since the day before yesterday and he really, really wants to see her. Daddy doesn’t want to talk about it, and the couple of times Dean’s tried to ask all Daddy did was look at him like he was really sad and maybe mad, and said they would talk about it later and to take care of Sammy. Mommy has _always_ been there though, ever since…well, forever, he guesses. She’s never far away and she always shows up right when he needs her, just like magic, like she could hear him wishing for her to come. He’s been wishing pretty hard though, and she still hasn’t come this time.

He has a really bad feeling in his belly.

He just wants to go home.

They can’t go home though, because their home isn’t there, because it burned down. That makes Dean want to cry too.

He loved his house. It was so much better than everybody else’s houses. They had a big backyard where Daddy built him a swing, and he had Batman sheets on his bed that he got for his birthday this year, and Mommy just made apple pie last weekend and she said if Dean was good and kept his room clean he could have a _whole piece_ all to himself, a piece as big as Daddy’s even.

He guesses there’s no more pie though either. And his super-cool Batman sheets are gone.

He wants to cry again, but baby Sammy beats him to it.

“Dean,” Daddy says gruffly over his shoulder, but Dean is already moving his seatbelt around so he can kneel up and look into his little brother’s car seat. Sammy’s little body is wriggling in place and his face is all scrunched up, whining unhappily. He’s tired of being in the car, and probably hungry, and prob’ly worried.

Dean knows how he feels.

“I think he’s hungry,” he offers, looking forward. He can only see the side of Daddy’s face, and the shadows on his whiskers make his frown look kinda scary. Before he can stop himself Dean adds timidly, “I’m hungry too Daddy,” then immediately feels bad when Daddy blows out a loud breath and his frown gets frownier.

“I can wait though,” he says quickly. “And I think I can get Sammy back to sleep, I’ll just let him chew on my fingers some.”

“No son, we’ll stop and get some breakfast. Soon as we find something open, okay?”

“’Kay.”

He is hungry, but mostly Dean is worried about Sammy, and about holding back the big ball of snot and tears and blubbering that’s been pressing on his throat for the last two days. He desperately wants to let it out, to curl up in a ball surrounded by the warmth of his parents on both sides and just cry as hard as he can until the ball goes away and he finally feels okay again, but he can’t. He can’t because his mom isn’t here and his dad doesn’t really feel like he’s here even though he’s right there, and this car is all that’s left of home. Dean quickly wipes away the few tears that have escaped, sniffles again, and turns to Sammy once more.

He’ll just take care of his brother for right now, because that’s all he can do.

///

“John.”

“Eggs-or-seez-ah—moo? Ah-moose? Bobby where’d you put that Latin dictionary?” John’s voice is muffled, mumbling. “I just had it right here…”

“John,” Bobby says, more harshly. “You have to stop, this ain’t what you need to be doing right now. You need to—”

“Where’s that notebook I had? The journal, brown leather cover, it was—oh there it is. Where the hell’s my pen?”

“Goddammit,” Bobby mutters. Then, “ _John!_ ”

Dean flinches at the noise.

He can’t sleep. Every time he tries he jolts awake only an hour or two later, unable to escape the nightmares about fire and his parents yelling and a big dark shadow all over his house and he wakes up scared, his heart pounding. Sammy’s still asleep so that’s good, because he’s still been crying a lot since they got to Uncle Bobby’s house. It took Dean a long time to get him to settle down tonight though, even longer than the last three nights, so he for sure doesn’t want to wake him up just because Dean’s scared of a dream.  
Daddy wasn’t upstairs even though it was late, so Dean crept down to find him, pausing in the doorway when he heard voices in the library. He’s not s’posed to be out of bed and he’s really not s’posed to interrupt when grown-ups are talking, so he figures if he waits here a few more minutes then when they’re done Daddy will see him and let Dean come sit in his lap until he feels better, like he always does.

“What?” John barks, pausing in his frantic paper shuffling for a moment. He’s behind Bobby’s big desk and there are books everywhere. Bobby’s standing across from him, staring him down.

“Do you really think this is the best use of your time?”

“Of course it is Bobby, I have to learn everything I possibly can if I’m going to track down this son of a bitch. We don’t even know what it was, I can’t afford to be unprepared.”

“Sam and Dean—”

“They’re fine,” John says, thudding books around once more. “They’re asleep.”

Dean shifts guiltily in place, but doesn’t say anything.

“Have you even talked to them about it?”

John stops, his back to the room. His shoulders look so tired. “And say what? That our lives will never be the same after this? That our family is broken?” He turns around to face Bobby again. “Sammy’s just a baby, he’ll never know any different. And Dean…”

Dean tenses, his tummy quivering at the words ‘never’ and ‘broken’. But Daddy just closes his eyes and shakes his head sadly. Dean thinks Bobby might say something else but he doesn’t, just waits with his own shoulders slumped until Daddy blows out a breath and straightens up.

“I have to do this, and I have to be the best I possibly can. It’s the only way to get justice for M…for what we’ve lost.”

Bobby gets his scary face on and gets right in front of Daddy.

“Those boys don’t need you to go chasing off on a damn fool monster hunt,” he hisses. “They need _you_ , you’re their father and you’re all they got. If Mary were here—”

“Well she’s not! Mary’s not here and she’s never coming back! Is that what you want me to tell my boys? Huh? Tell them their mother is dead and I didn’t do a damn thing to get vengeance on the thing that killed her? What kind of father would I be then?”

Daddy’s yelling in Bobby’s face.

“The kind that’s here! The kind that cares more about how his boys are doing than about some goddamn monster that’s long gone by now!”

Bobby’s yelling right back, but Dean can’t hear it anymore. All he can hear is a strange rushing in his ears and the pounding of his own heart, and the echo of his father’s words.

_Mary’s not here. Never coming back. Thing that killed her. Family is broken. Dead._

_Mary’s dead._

_Mommy’s dead._

A sob claws its way out of his chest and tears loudly out of his throat. Dean turns, stumbling into the doorway, but ignores the sharp pain in his shoulder. Behind him he hears voices again—“Dean?” “Shit.”—but he doesn’t stick around to hear anymore. He’s heard enough, and what he’s heard makes it feel like all his insides have been ripped out and stomped on.

He races down the hall and slams out the front door, clattering down the wooden steps as fast as his short legs will carry him. He doesn’t know where to go, where he can possibly go that could make him feel any better. He hears footsteps in the house coming after him but he doesn’t want to see anybody, nobody in the world except Mommy.

And she’s gone, forever.

Dean runs into the maze of cars in Bobby’s yard, runs as hard as he can in every direction until his throat hurts from breathing too hard and he’s alone again. Then he makes his way back around the house to where the Impala sits, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. He fumbles at the door handle, letting out another sob when he jams his thumb, but finally manages to get it open and crawls into the backseat. There, amid the familiar smells of leather and exhaust and _normal_ , he lets go. He cries until his stomach knots into a painful ball, until his face is hot and his eyes are gritty and his fingernails have dug indents into his palms. He curls up into himself like baby Sammy does, unable to stop the horrible sounds coming out of him and wishing he could go back to sleep and wake up in his bed with the Batman sheets, to the smell of warm apple pie and the assurance that _this_ was the nightmare, not the fire. He hiccups loudly, over and over, unable to draw a full breath with the force of his grief. There’s snot on his face and a puddle forming beneath his head, but he doesn’t care. He wants his mommy.

He just wants to go home.

 

**III.**

Dean digs his fingernails into the leather seat, holding on hard, and at any other time he would yell at the person who dared to so disrespect his baby but right now he can’t even think straight much less be concerned about marks on the upholstery.

He’s spread out in the back of the Impala, as far as he can be at least; the door handle is digging into the back of his neck and he has one foot on the floor wedged up against the front backrest, the other leg bent and shoved against the backseat. Cas is half-kneeling in the footwell, curling his unfairly talented tongue and trying to suck Dean’s brains out through his dick.

Dean thinks it might be working.

Cas has one hand wrapped around the base of Dean’s shaft, moving in tandem with his mouth, bobbing up and down. He’s sucking hard and licking with each wet stroke, just the way Dean likes it. Dean is gasping and his hips are jerking up but Cas holds him down with his free hand, forcing pleasure on Dean and making him writhe. When Cas slurps his way back up and pulls off, slowly jacking Dean with a too-loose fist while he places soft kitten licks all over the head and tonguing the exquisitely sensitive bundle of nerves underneath, Dean’s whole body arches and he gasps out pleadingly, “Don’t stop Cas, please, more, _fuck_ I need more.”

Cas actually smirks (Dean has officially taught him too much), but the arrogance is dampened somewhat when Dean takes in Cas’s debauched appearance; face flushed, mouth swollen and wet. A hot flush spreads from Dean’s throat down his chest as he sees the bulge in Cas’s pants, evidence he’s enjoying this almost as much as Dean is. Cas teases him with a few more easy strokes of his hand that have sharp-edged urgency rushing through Dean’s veins, before he drops his head and sucks Dean down all at once, cheeks hollowed and tongue rubbing. Dean’s body twists and he grabs at Cas’s hair, teetering on the edge; then Cas lets out this fucking _filthy_ sound of appreciation around his cock and Dean’s done. His muffled shout bounces off the low ceiling as he comes hotly in Cas’s mouth and Cas just swallows it all down, sucking gently through it.

He pulls off completely just as Dean would have moved him away, his skin too sensitive, but Cas already knows. All the experience he has with this has been with Dean, and he may not know every trick in the book but he does know everything about what Dean likes and what turns him on.

He rubs his palms soothingly up and down Dean’s thighs and moves back up his body, dropping sucking kisses on Dean’s ridged abdomen, his sternum, over his tattoo. Finally he slots himself in the vee of Dean’s thighs, slack with his release, and kisses Dean on the mouth. Dean kisses back eagerly, holding Castiel’s face as he licks the mingled taste of them out of his mouth. Cas gives a low “mmm” of approval through their kisses which is sexy as all fuck, before pulling away and nestling down on Dean’s chest.

Dean holds Cas, stroking down his sides, as he catches his breath and returns to normal. He just needs a minute, and as soon as his muscles have re-solidified he’s totally going to return the favor. Just as soon as Cas stops scratching his stubble against Dean’s neck and biting gently at his ear and generally turning the hunter into a shivery, gooey mess of afterglow and cuddle monster. (That’s a thing, right? Because it’s pretty much dead on how Dean feels at moments like this, holding Cas close and running his hands over whatever he can reach of the angel’s body.)

Cas doesn’t seem to be in any hurry for his turn though, kissing wetly over Dean’s jaw and nuzzling into his skin, and remembering just how Cas’s sinful lips got so wet in the first place has Dean twisting his fingers in the other man’s dark hair. Cas has just found the sensitive nerve at the side of Dean’s neck and begun sucking, and Dean thinks he might just be up for round two himself in a few minutes, when a sharp knocking thuds loudly on the window right above his head and makes him practically jump out of his skin. (He did not yelp.)

Dean jerks and hits his head painfully against the door handle, cursing. He glowers, upside down, at his brother’s face, carefully averted to an indeterminate spot on the ground.  
“What the hell?” he yells. Cas hasn’t moved off of him, which is maybe a good thing since apparently Sam’s taken it upon himself to fine tune his cockblocking skills and Dean’s kind of bare-assed here, but he has stopped sucking on Dean’s neck.

Sam mutters something inaudible and Dean gives an aggravated sigh, groping awkwardly behind his shoulder. Helpfully, Cas reaches out and rolls the window down.

“Thanks,” he smiles goofily and winks at Cas.

“Of course.” Cas attempts a return wink, inevitably winds up looking like a doofus and god, but he’s adorable.

Returning his attention to the hovering moose, Dean barks irritably, “What do you want?”

Cas gives him a reproving pinch low on his side and Dean squirms a bit, shooting an offended look at the angel who’s by now completely ignoring him, because really? Pinching a guy right in the soft spot that is not going soft because he’s a hunter who ganks the big bads and is generally awesome? Not cool.  
“Can we help you with something, Sam?” Cas asks, oblivious. His entire demeanor, in fact, is more appropriate to a friendly chat over tea or some shit, rather than between a guy whose hard-on is still poking a half-naked Dean in the stomach while he converses with the half-naked dude’s brother. Right after he just had said half-naked dude’s dick down his throat.

It’s possible they all three spend too much time together.

“I was looking for you Cas, to see if you could help me with a translation,” Sam says, carefully still not looking anywhere near enough to actually see either of the two in the car, even peripherally, “but I couldn’t find you so I came to get my jacket from the car because I thought I left Kevin’s new number in it, and I didn’t realize you guys were… um, that the car was…”

He looks pained, so Cas takes pity on him and just replies evenly, “Of course I’ll help. I will come find you after, if that’s alright?”

The prospect of ‘after’ what exactly sends Sam’s mortification a visible shade deeper. Dean takes zero pity on him.

“Yeah bitch, _after_ ,” he emphasizes as lecherously as possible, and he can tell from the way Sam stiffens that his brother is _dying_ to shoot him a bitchface, stymied by his complete unwillingness to face their direction.

“Oh,” he continues loudly, obnoxiously, “is this your jacket, by the way?” Dean digs underneath himself where a stray piece of cloth has, in fact, been preventing his ass from sticking to the seat. He hadn’t been paying any attention to what it was, of course, but Sam’s disgust just makes this better. He waves the jacket above his head, snickering when it takes Sam three tries to blindly grab it back.

“I’m just gonna go bleach this now. And probably my whole hand. Maybe even my eyes.”

“Won’t that ruin it?” Cas calls after him, concerned.

“Yeah Sammy,” Dean shouts back at the open window. “Don’t bleach it, it’s covered in _looove_.”

Sam’s footsteps abruptly stop and Dean gives a belly laugh, shaking Cas above him.

Incredibly, the footsteps return, and Dean and Cas look up simultaneously to see Sam risking the barest glance at them.

“I’m really happy for you guys, you know.”

He flees before either of them can respond.

“Just don’t fuck on my stuff anymore!” Sam’s shout echoes, then the garage door slams, and they’re alone once more.

Dean and Cas just look at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing. Well, Dean bursts out laughing, Cas just kind of rumbles out a few chuckles, but his nose scrunches up and the corners of his eyes crinkle and all his teeth and some of his gums are showing and he’s so damn cute Dean’s not sure he can hold it all in.

“We probably shouldn’t mention the front seat, then.”

“Or the big library table.”

“Or his room.”

“Technically that was just one wall Cas, and a bit of doorframe. Maybe a little floor. Maybe.”

“Still, I don’t think it would be in our best interests to bring these up to him.”

“Probably not,” Dean agrees. “You know what is in our best interests, though?” Dean insinuates a thigh between Cas’s, slips his hands up beneath Cas’s shirt.

“What’s that?” the angel asks, though by the tightening of his fingers on Dean’s shoulders he already knows. Of course he knows, he can read Dean like a book.

Dean flips them over lightning fast—or, as lightning fast as he can, given that both of them bump their heads and Cas’s freaking clothes are in the way and Dean nearly falls off the seat entirely.

“Your turn.”

As Dean tugs at clothing and moves down the other man’s body to return the favor, Castiel’s hands are already reaching for his hair eagerly and he doesn’t spare one iota of worry about the world outside these four heavy doors, secure in the knowledge that his baby is watching over him and the cherished man moaning beneath him.

She’ll keep them safe from Sam’s wrath.

 

**IV.**

_Pathetic. Self-hating. Faithless._

The Whore’s words echo through Dean’s head, pounding. Relentless.

_It’s the end of the world._

_And you’re just gonna sit back and watch it happen._

He’s just going to sit back and watch it happen, because he can’t stop saying no. Like a child throwing a tantrum, Dean’s going to keep saying no, repeating it, shouting it even as the world burns and the flames rise up to consume them all. _But it’s the right decision_ , he’ll say when Lucifer sweeps through town after town wreaking havoc and devastation. _We shouldn’t give in to either side because they’re both wrong,_ he’ll insist when hunters die by the score, unable to defend themselves against the onslaught. _Angels are dicks and can’t be trusted,_ he’ll scream when Castiel is cut down by his brothers and sisters; _there was nothing I could do to stop it,_ he’ll whisper, voice echoing hollowly amongst the smoking ruins of civilization.

Well that’s bullshit.

And that ends now.

So many people have died over the years already, died _for_ them, _because_ of them; why should more people die? Innocent people who have no idea the world’s on the fast track to the crapper and Dean’s the one who put it there. He’s the one who was weak, who couldn’t hold out long enough for Cas to come get him and instead let Alistair turn him into the monster that tripped the Apocalypse. Why should the other six billion people on the Earth pay for Dean’s weakness? Huh? That’s right, they shouldn’t. Nobody deserves this, Lucifer walking free, Death snuffing people out with just a flick of his wrist, demons running amok.

_The Righteous Man who begins it, is the only one who can end it._

Now Dean’s a pretty piss-poor excuse of a Righteous Man, that much is clear, but he’s damn well going to do what fate or destiny or whatever had planned for him and end it. Because this, the blood and destruction and death, it has to end. And this is all Dean is good for, so he might as well just get with the program already.

First thing he had to do was ditch Sam, of course. The mile markers are flashing past the Impala’s headlights at a steady rate, and Dean wonders if he’s gone far enough yet. True, he left Sam stranded without any wheels, but his little brother is damn smart and if he wants to find Dean he will. Which means Dean has to do what he needs to do and be quick about it. He’s already wasted the last year whining about not getting his own way, thinking that he could change the fate of the world by force of will alone; all his selfishness has done is get more people killed, but that’s done now. No more.

He drives on through the night, avoiding major highways whenever possible and avoiding thinking about the people he’s leaving behind. Sam’ll be pissed, no doubt about it, but eventually he’ll see that Dean is doing the right thing. Sam never wanted this life anyway; his idea of a happy memory is a holiday with someone else’s family, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t need to be saddled with a needy, emotionally co-dependent brother when he could be off living like a real boy. Dean should’ve known better than to drag Sam back into this life in the first place. Deep down he probably did know better, with the part of him that could never forget all the times Sam talked about leaving as a kid. All the times he ran away, which apparently were so much better than this life that they made his Heavenly bonus reel. But like an idiot Dean went anyway, drove to Palo Alto and smashed his brother’s mostly-well-adjusted life to smithereens with the weight of his inadequacy. Now Sam is a recovering demon-blood addict college dropout who can kill with the power of his mind and is apparently the messiah of Hell.

Way to go Dean. Fuckin’ fantastic work there.

Then there’s Cas. Castiel, once a larger-than-life totally badass angel of the Lord, one of Heaven’s staunchest warriors, now lost to everything he’s ever known, all because he decided to follow Dean. Cas, driven to drink because he’s losing his grace, losing his faith, losing everything that made him the awe-inspiring being he was. And for what? For humanity?

For Dean Winchester?

He feels guilty about banishing Cas, at least as much guilt as he can spare when he’s about to be responsible for the destruction of half of humanity no matter what he does, but Cas can’t help him anymore. There’s a small part of him, very nearly overlooked under the circumstances, that regrets how undeniably he has let Castiel down, especially after all the angel has done for them. He would apologize if he thought it would make any difference, but the angel is thousands upon thousands of years old, and after it’s all said and done Dean will be nothing more than an unremarkable blip on his radar, and really maybe that’s for the best. Then he won’t have to spend the rest of immortality dwelling on how he once made a grave mistake, placing his faith in a pathetic excuse of a human who didn’t deserve it.

Dean gives a mirthless chuckle, the sound stark in the silence of the car. Cas fucked up, that’s for sure. His intentions were honorable, but to choose to—what did Zachariah call it?—‘champion mediocrity’, well, that was about the most dumbass thing he could’ve done. The memory of Cas’s wide blue eyes, trusting Dean to do the right thing, unexpectedly makes something clench in his chest, and Dean has to force himself to keep driving, knuckles white on the steering wheel because there’s that something…  
But no. No matter what kinds of feelings try to edge their way into Dean’s consciousness, now is not the time. There never will be a time, truthfully, even if Dean had stayed. It’s impossible for so many reasons that it’s not even worth thinking about.

So he doesn’t. Instead he takes the turnoff for Cicero, and prepares to say the rest of his goodbyes.

///

Dean wants to sit back and take a moment to absorb the weight of what he’s just done. He doesn’t though, just signs his name and folds up the letter, sealing it in an envelope bearing the name of this no-name motel. Getting up from the desk, he moves to drop the letter into a box and digs in his pocket. Pulling his hand free with a familiar jingle Dean pauses, staring at his keys. This is what he has to leave behind. A letter to Sam, apologizing for fucking up his life, a leather jacket, an illegal cache of weapons and a car.  
Dean could almost laugh. Thirty years, and this is it. Almost, except it’s more painful than funny.

Because this pitiful accumulation isn’t even _his_ to leave behind, is it? It’s all John, down to the toolbox in the trunk. Sure, Dean’s the one who kept the Impala going all these years, rebuilt her a couple times and other than Sammy she’s been his pride and joy, but he doesn’t deserve her anymore. He fiddles with the key ring, hoping that his brother can someday understand why he has to do this. Sam knows how much the Impala has always meant to him, the jacket too, so hopefully they will serve as adequate reminders of how much Sam has meant in Dean’s life, that he trusts him with his most valuable possessions. His only possessions. His only value, other than as a vessel.

Sam has always been the more important one anyway, from the moment Dad thrust a tiny body into Dean’s chubby four-year-old arms and commanded him to save his baby brother. He was the only one with a real chance to make anything of himself, and Dean has to give him that chance now. He won’t go anywhere while Dean’s still hanging around, dragging him down, and he won’t have a chance to do anything but die if Dean doesn’t save him, save everyone, so this is what he’ll do, because it’s all he can do. It’s all he is.

_Everybody leaves you, Dean. You noticed? Mommy. Daddy. Even Sam._

_God was your last hope._

_He just doesn’t think it’s…His problem._

And now Adam has been dragged into this, brought back to life after they got him killed unnecessarily in the first place (in gory and painful fashion no less), to take Dean’s place while he decides to have a tantrum about the whole cosmic plan just because God didn’t feel it necessary to consult him personally about the future of the Earth; Adam, who got dealt a shitty hand in life just by an accident of birth, by having been born into a cursed family that he didn’t even know about.

The fucking Winchester legacy.

A jacket, a gun, a set of keys. All wrapped up and sent off to Bobby, who can always be counted on to clean up their messes. That’s some legacy.  
Dean thinks now is an ideal time to finish off the rest of that bottle of whiskey he picked up. If he leaves it for later, well, Michael could have shitty taste in alcohol for all he knows. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste, after. After it’s done, after Dean’s done. Gone.  
But then—

“Sending someone a candygram?”

Dean spins around, heart in his throat. The rush of relief he feels is as shameful as it is undeserved.

_Sam._

And a minute later, _Cas._

His family.

 

**V.**

The rumble of the Impala’s engine beneath Dean is accompanied by the whoosh of broken yellow lines rushing at them and disappearing just as quickly. His baby’s sweet purr is overlaid by the well-worn crackle of his favorite tapes, their familiarity combining to settle a sense of peace and well-being in Dean’s chest and supplant the irritating uncertainty that’s been lodged there all morning. Currently playing is Freebird, which Dean has secretly always thought of as his own personal anthem (plus it’s given him the chance to explain to Cas why the live version is the only way to go).

He slows a little more than he normally would as they come up on a bend in the road and negotiates the turn somewhat awkwardly, using only his left hand and knee to rotate the steering wheel as his right hand is lying on the middle of the bench seat, warmly clasped with Castiel’s.

They didn’t have anything planned for today as the local monster community has been obligingly quiet of late, so Dean is surprising Cas with a trip—Jesus, he can’t even believe himself—to Cawker City, Kansas, home of the world’s largest ball of twine.

No, he’s not kidding.

Now, without even trying Dean and Sam had managed to see most of the more… memorable tourist traps to be found across the U.S. over the course of their nomadic childhoods. The world’s largest hairball in Indiana (gross); Big Ernie, the world’s largest working rifle in Michigan (Dean could totally handle that); the world’s tallest thermometer in California (stupid); Carhenge in Nebraska (What. The fuck.). When they’d come across the 25-foot tall Paul Bunyan in Minnesota, Dean had laughed and pointed at gangly, fifteen-year old Sam and shouted, “We’ve finally found your people!” Sam had punched him, but Dean still didn’t give up the joke for a solid month. (He even managed to get Sam a stuffed blue Babe for his birthday one year, and the bitchface that earned him had sent Dean into fits of laughter so hard they actually turned painful.) Dean really doesn’t feel the need to see any more touristy crap—he didn’t even need to see most of them the first time, to tell the truth—although he does think, if he were ever to settle in one place other than the Men of Letters bunker, he could definitely see himself staying in that town that baked the giant cherry pie. Hell _yes_.

But Cas had been watching this television special about discovering-America-in-your-motorhome or some crap a few nights before, and expressed his curiosity about such places and the kinds of people they draw. Dean had scoffed and given a practically audible roll of his eyes, but late that night had seen him covertly Googling several variations of ‘shitty Kansas tourist traps’ while Cas snored in their bed. (And by the way, how freakin’ cool are they that they get wi-fi in their dungeon? The Middle Ages can suck it.) When he found out this one wasn’t too far from the bunker, well, that had been that.

Dean was extra careful to clear the browser history from the laptop after that particular online excursion, because yeah, that right there? That was more shameful than porn. Which is saying something.

So far the trip has been spent talking about nothing of import; Dean gave Cas his decided opinion that Hollywood has completely run out of anything resembling a good idea (“Some things just should _not_ be remade, Cas”), while Castiel had told Dean everything he never wanted to know about the origins of beer in the modern world (fucking History Channel).

Cas only asked him where they were going once when they set off that morning, but Dean just gave him the most mysterious look he could muster and said it was a surprise. Apparently that was sufficient for Cas, because he just nodded and settled trustingly into the passenger seat and hasn’t asked since.

Almost like their destination is unimportant, and Dean’s company is enough.

When they get there and pass the sign proclaiming “World’s Largest Ball of Twine” Cas gives Dean this look, a little bit disbelief and a lot bit dawning excitement, smiles sweetly and kisses Dean hard. Dean has to slam on the brakes so he doesn’t crash into a parked car and doesn’t even look back at the honking asshole behind them as he flips them off, still too entranced by Castiel’s happiness. After they get out and walk up to see the masterpiece—it’s twine, this is not exactly a master feat of engineering—Cas circles the thing slowly, investigating seemingly every strand to learn how it all fits together. Then he drags Dean around to read every single informational sign there is, even going so far as to read them aloud, just in case Dean was missing out on the wonder before them. (As far as Dean’s concerned, the only wonder right here is a millennia-old angel, who spent all his time in actual _Heaven_ until the last several years, getting so caught up in what is essentially a giant ugly snarl of string. It’s unbelievably endearing, and yeah, Dean’s so far gone on Cas he doesn’t even know or care where he used to be.)

Cas makes them stay long enough to act as photographers for every other family that comes along (eight, a far higher number than Dean would have expected; all the kids look bored out of their minds) and to have the strangers graciously do the same for them, because who in their right minds wouldn’t want to commemorate an experience like this. Dean winds up with twelve pictures on his phone of him and Cas, with their arms around each other or holding hands or with their heads leaning together, smiling dopey smiles, in front of a national monstrosity. He surreptitiously finds the one where Cas had turned to kiss him on the cheek just as the shutter clicked, morphing Dean’s face into a mix of surprised pleasure and embarrassed blush, and sets it as his wallpaper.

Cas happens to overhear from one of the tourist families that people are allowed to add their own lengths of twine to the ball, and _oh boy here we go_ Dean thinks. Cas turns to him, practically bouncing on his feet, and Dean gives a mockery of a bow, sweeping an arm out with a droll, “Lead the way.” What Castiel would call his ‘attitude’ is soundly ignored, as Cas grabs Dean’s hand and drags them out into the street. There’s a looping piece of painted string (good god, does this town have _nothing_ else to be proud of?) weaving its way along the sidewalk, leading hapless tourists from one shop to the next, and Cas follows it faithfully, winding back and forth in what Dean hopes is the right direction. Honestly at this point, Cas could be leading them to Canada, and Dean would still be trailing along, grinning despite himself at the angel drunkenly veering left to right.  
After a brief stop at the local inn the duo returns, armed with twine, to add their 68 inches of history. (Dean adds on one more, just to see the way Cas’s nose wrinkles when Dean’s being particularly obnoxious.) Cas, as expected, is meticulous in his selection of where they should add on their contribution, and he hems and haws for almost ten minutes until Dean is about ready to shake him, cute little nose or no. Finally he deems a spot worthy and they lay their string, then stand back to proudly survey their work (the whole thing is boring beige, and it’s impossible to tell which part is theirs once they’re done but Cas is happy so whatever).

They finally leave when Dean’s stomach growls embarrassingly for the third time, and Cas lets himself be dragged away, looking back over his shoulder all the way to the car. He talks all through a late lunch about how nice it is of the townspeople to allow strangers to join in their tradition, and about the first humans to have invented string as a simple tool, and how they really have to bring Sam back later this summer for the Twine-A-Thon. On the way back to the Impala, without warning Cas tugs Dean into an alley, out of sight of passersby. Looking solemnly into Dean’s eyes, Cas says, “Thank you Dean, this was wonderful.” Then he leans in for a kiss, which becomes two kisses, then three, then they’re making out in semi-public until Dean’s practically melting, ready to brave the giant hairball again if he can only have more of this.

Finally they get on the road once more. Dean is singing along to the music, off-key and uncaring, exceptionally gratified when he hears Cas humming along to himself, low.  
He looks at Cas and grins, still singing, and Cas blushes a bit at being caught but gives Dean a beautiful smile in return. Dean lifts the hand he’s holding and kisses the back of it, taking a moment to appreciate the unique flavor of Cas’s skin as he inhales, and Dean thinks it’s a damn shame that more people don’t appreciate a good road trip.

 

**VI.**

_It’s okay, Dean. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got him._

It’s not okay. It will never be okay again. “Okay” has ceased to have all meaning.

If things were okay, Dean would be kicking back in Bobby’s library right now, cracking open a new beer and giddy with success. If things were okay, Cas would still be around, squinting dopily at basically everything and having overly-serious, one-sided conversations with his voicemail. If things were okay, Dean wouldn’t feel like someone had scooped all of his insides out like a pumpkin and tossed them, _splat_ , to be ground up in the garbage disposal and replaced with absolutely nothing.

If things were goddamn _okay_ , the passenger seat wouldn’t be so gapingly empty right now.

Sam’s gone. He’s gone for good this time, and “okay” is a thing of the past.

Dean switches lanes, driving on auto-pilot past a lumbering semi-truck with only the faintest thought as to what would happen if he just let the thing plow into him. He’s not entirely sure which highway he’s on now, nor is he concerned enough to check. He’ll get where he’s going eventually, and if he doesn’t, well, it’s not like it’ll make much difference. Not anymore.

Headlights from another car flash past, illuminating the Impala’s somber interior for a few quick seconds, seeming to center on the negative space next to Dean. Valiantly he tries to ignore it, but the conspicuous hollowness of the front seat tears jaggedly at his brain, forcing him to relive the moment Sam had disappeared, over and over again. He wonders absently if it’s anything like the phantom limb sensation that amputees sometimes experience; for their sakes, he hopes not.

Maybe Bobby felt something like that in the past year, when he was stuck in a wheelchair without the use of his legs because he’d stabbed himself clear through to the spinal cord on Dean’s account. Maybe Cas felt it when he realized he’d been cut off from his grace and basically everything he’d ever known for the past hundreds of thousands of years, because he’d decided to defy the dictates of Heaven and throw in with the hairless apes because Dean told him it was the right thing to do. Maybe Sam felt like that all over when he decided to let Lucifer possess him and lost control of his entire body, including his free will, just so _Dean_ would be proud of him. Maybe Jo had felt like that after being attacked by the Hell hound; maybe Ellen had, or Ash. Or Pamela or Jimmy Novak or Mary or John.

People certainly did have a habit of fucking themselves over when they got too close to Dean. And if they didn’t manage to do it themselves, Dean was always right there to step in and do it for them. And he was the one left alive and in one piece? What a fucking joke. He would almost laugh, except he doesn’t think his body is physically capable of it anymore.

Another hour passes and the temperature drops, fog beginning to creep up the inside of the Impala’s windshield. It moves slowly but steadily, enveloping everything except the huge cracks where Dean’s body had landed on it with all the force of—well, of an archangel, throwing his ass around in preparation for complete annihilation. With the glass fogged up he can’t see the shiny smears of blood on the hood anymore, remnants of the devil punching Dean in the face using his baby brother’s giant Sasquatch paws. He’s tempted to leave it, but then he also can’t see the road, so Dean turns on the heater. He’s not really cold—not in a way artificially warmed air can ameliorate, anyway—but his mission here doesn’t include dying, even if that would be preferable to the vast maw of barren years that lay ahead.

There’s a rattling sound coming from somewhere, oddly echoing. After a few moments he realizes the empty gallon jugs that had once been warm and full with demon blood are still jostling around in the trunk, and it’s enough to make Dean nauseous. There’s another, smaller rattling though, but this one is familiar; he’s been hearing it all his life. His Legos are knocking around inside the Impala’s air vents, reminders of another era, when Dean was still innocent and Sam still had hope; when the worst thing they could have gotten in trouble for was illicitly carving their initials beneath the carpet under the rear windshield.

Abruptly Dean’s numbness turns to unholy fury. What was the whole point of all this? The last two years, scraping and clawing and giving everything he had just to try to get ahead, to beat the ultimate evil; to save lives, let the world go on as it has been so that people can remain blissfully ignorant of how close both sides had come to burning the whole thing to the ground. And now here he is, driving off into the darkness, completely alone. Bobby’s good now, all healed up and back to normal; Cas is back to 100% angel and running back to be God’s errand boy in Heaven; and Dean has nothing.

What was the fucking point?

The worst part—and he sort of hates Cas for pointing it out—is that nothing has changed. There’s no Paradise, no Hell, no nothing, but billions upon billions of people eating and laughing and sleeping and living their smug fucking little lives, completely unaware that they had come inches from genocide and that they owed their measly existences to the bravery and selflessness of Sam Winchester. They have no clue. It’s like his brother’s sacrifice didn’t mean shit, and it makes Dean angry. There’s nothing; it’s like the vacuum left in the wake of an atomic bomb explosion, sucking every bit of life and will Dean’s ever had. There’s no more for him to do, nothing he hasn’t given, and this is what he gets? It may be over, but now Dean burns to find God more than ever, just so he can punch the bastard in the face. This is what he was born for, _this_ is his so-called destiny? Well Dean calls bullshit, because this isn’t destiny. This is just the beginning of Dean’s long march toward death, uninterrupted by life. All he has now is this car, so ingrained with a lifetime’s worth of memories that are too raw to even contemplate, and an existence mired in stasis that no amount of faux-happy family time with Lisa could possibly cure. Nevertheless he makes the transition onto I-290 east towards Chicago, because he’d made a promise.

A promise to his baby brother, his Sammy, who just saved the goddamn world. It’s incredible. It’s a miracle.

Too bad Dean doesn’t want to be a part of it.

 

**VII.**  
Dean has a lot of shit.

Cas has almost nothing.

That doesn’t seem fair somehow.

It’s not like Dean’s a hoarder, quite the opposite in fact. He’s been conditioned by life on the road for the past _*cough*_ thirty _*cough cough*_ years on the road to keep it to the bare essentials. Enough clothes for a week or two, socks and underwear for at least as long—because pants can be worn a few times before they find a decent Laundromat, but boxers, not so much—Fed suit, good boots, dress shoes for the Fed suit, bathroom kit, coat, and as many weapons as he can conceivably fit on his body, and that’s pretty much what Dean’s been rolling with all this time. (Lube and condoms for when he gets lucky, but those are essential on the same level as, like, the beer cooler, or his Dad’s set of tools for working on the car, so they don’t really even count when it comes to taking up space.)

Yet apparently, in the scant months since he and Sam have found and claimed the bunker, he’s flung off his minimalist tendencies with a vengeance and starting grabbing every stray item the thrift store had to offer which caught his eye, because _hey, we have the bunker now_. Standing back and looking at all of his stuff now, piled on the bed and on the floor and even in the sink, Dean begins to wonder if just maybe he’s taking this whole I-was-never-allowed-to-have-material-possessions-because-I-didn’t-have-a-home-and-now-I-do thing a little too far.

There are piles of jeans and t-shirts (because that one vintage store in Hastings is like a frickin’ _goldmine_ of original tour memorabilia, and when you find a Def Leppard shirt from before Rick Allen’s accident you snatch that shit up no question), costumes and suits of all kinds, clumsily stacked records in two—no, three, fo—six different places…

What. They’re a _dollar_ at the thrift stores, seriously.

And that’s not even taking into consideration the one-man arsenal on the walls.

Dean scratches his head. Yeah, maybe Sam was right about not needing that replica Iron Throne, though he’ll never give his bitchy little brother the satisfaction of admitting it aloud.

“Uh, sorry man,” he says a little uncertainly. “I didn’t think I had this much crap in here, I figured it’d only take a few minutes to shove everything aside and make room for you, y’know?”

Cas hums a bit. “It’s quite alright, Dean. It’s nice that you’re so comfortable here that you’ve begun collecting things.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah right, collecting things. I look like one of those people who stays up all night ordering blenders and crap from TV. I mean look at this,” he waves a somewhat despairing hand at the clutter.

“I’m looking,” Cas replies calmly, considering the scene before them. “I like it,” he says quietly, almost stubborn. “It looks…inviting. Warm.” He glances over and catches Dean in his tender blue gaze. “It looks like you.”

Dean is in imminent danger of bursting into flame, he can feel his face blushing so brightly. But he can’t look away.

Frickin’ sentimental angels.

Finally when he can’t take it anymore without squirming, Dean mutters, “At least it doesn’t look like whichever dead guy used to live here.” He eases over to slide his hands around Cas’s trim waist, tugging until they’re facing each other, pressed together. Cas comes easily, linking his hands at the small of Dean’s back in turn. There’s a loose button on Cas’s shirt, about halfway down his chest, that will need to be replaced soon. Fiddling with it, Dean wonders absently if the angel is as adept with a sewing needle as he is with a blade. Somehow, he doesn’t think so.

“Once we get your stuff in here, it’ll look like us,” he remarks, deliberately offhand, still intent on that button. The other obvious choice is to look Castiel in the face, but—nah, he’d rather not do that right now. Not when his heart is beating oddly fast, and a curious apprehension has taken hold.

Which is ridiculous really, it’s not like they haven’t talked about Cas moving into the bunker, and given all the time they’ve spent wrapped up in each other when Sam isn’t around lately it’s obvious that he would stay with Dean, so he shouldn’t—

“I don’t think I have ‘stuff’,” Cas says, and _wait, what?_

Dean’s eyes fly up reflexively to see Cas frowning in thought. His heart pounds a little harder, with a fine edge of something he can’t identify right this moment but almost seems like panic.

“I’m not certain, but is it still considered ‘moving in’ if I have nothing of my own to move, save myself? It seems like that would be more a geographic matter than a romantic one, but perhaps it’s more a state of mind than of physical location. I suppose I could borrow some things to ceremonially move, but if they’re not my possessions I don’t think that would count. Dean,” the angel pauses, riveting Dean’s attention. His head is spinning, a confusion of nerves and adrenaline leaving him momentarily speechless, at the mercy of Castiel’s rambling train of thought.

He manages a hoarse, “Yeah?”

“I believe I need to acquire some stuff,” says Cas seriously. “So I can move in properly.”

_Move in. Cas still wants to move in. He still wants this, wants me._

Dean sucks in a deep breath and holds it for a count of five, waiting for his body to settle. Exhaling, a laugh escapes his chest, and Dean’s shoulders slump in relief. He leans his forehead against Cas’s and smiles into his eyes. “Yeah babe, we’ll get you some stuff. Tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“In the meantime, I guess the only way to be official is for you to start sleeping in here with me.” Dean shrugs. “Or meditate while I sleep, or commune with nature, or whatever it is you do.”

Cas gifts him with a grin, nose scrunched just a bit and eyes crinkling happily. Dean’s stupid indecisive heart melts at the sight. “Of course, love.”

“Awesome,” Dean murmurs, giving in to the urge to kiss that smile right off Castiel’s dumb adorable face.

The ensuing week is spent alternating between taking care of Sam, who’s putting on a good face but is obviously feeling the strain of the trials, and taking Cas on ‘supply runs’ where they inevitably wind up cruising up and down random streets until the angel spots any sufficiently intriguing storefronts where he can procure the appropriate ‘stuff’ to officially move in with Dean. (And Sam technically, but he’s been sleeping eight to ten hours a day and burying himself in dusty books the rest of the time, so it’s debatable that he’s even aware of anything not demonic or Latin in nature.)

He winds up with a particularly screech-y vintage alarm clock (which Dean is ready to smash into bits after the second day); a worn deck of cards, which Dean promptly puts to use teaching Cas to play strip poker (and he has never been so happy to lose at anything in his life); a few replacement neckties, all blue of course, plus a sewing kit for his trench coat (Dean was right; Cas is shit with a needle, and they wind up going through two full boxes of Band-Aids); a portable cassette player complete with flimsy original earphones, which Cas says he wants to have so he can learn more of Dean’s music even when they’re not in the car (Dean can’t keep from pouncing on him at that, and they might be banned from that one vintage store but Dean takes in Cas’s extra messy hair and swollen lips and decides _fuck it_ ); assorted books, a photo album, and his very own personal hygiene kit. The last one is probably superfluous given, y’know, _angel_ , but it makes Cas smile to drop his toothbrush in the cup next to Dean’s and stupidly, it really does make this whole living-together thing feel, well, official.

The crowning glory of their upgraded coupley-ness, however, is the day when Dean solemnly bequeaths Cas the Netflix password, then creates him his own profile and helps him learn how to make a list of titles to watch. He makes sure to impress upon Cas the seriousness of sharing a Netflix password, and the level of trust it requires. Cas nods gravely, and vows to remain worthy of such.

A few days after the Netflix password ceremony, Sam and Dean are sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast, looking at the newspaper and discussing whether Sam is ready to get hunting again.

“I know you want to get back out there man, but I don’t know,” Dean hedges. “Are you sure you’re 100%? Because to be honest, you do not look it.”

Sam makes a face. “I’m telling you I’m fine Dean, and even if I’m not staying cooped up here isn’t helping.” Dean must not look convinced, because Sam continues, “Fine, if you don’t believe me then we can ask someone else. Call Cas and see what he says.”

Dean feels himself looking at Sam strangely this time. “Dude, just wait a little while until he gets up, then ask him yourself.”

“What?” Sam squints, then lets out an irrepressible yawn.

“You are so out of it.”

“Am not.” He yawns again, dropping his fork to scrub the fatigue from his face, and yeah, Sam is not ready to go anywhere.

Just as Dean’s opening his mouth to argue he notices Sam’s gaze caught by something over his shoulder.

“Uh…hey Cas,” Sam says slowly.

“Good morning Sam,” Cas replies imperturbably, beelining for the coffee maker. He still doesn’t need to sleep, but says he “enjoys the peace of deep meditation”, whatever that means, and has adopted Dean’s love of coffee in the morning. And bacon. “Dean.”

Dean winks at him, because it makes the angel try to hide a smile which is unspeakably cute, and ignores Sam’s questioning look.

Cas brings his mug and plate to the table, and somehow in the process of pulling out his chair and scooting back in he winds up right next to Dean, close enough their shoulders brush whenever one of them moves.

Finally Sam speaks. “So uh, Cas.”

“Yes?”

“Um. Nice pajamas?” He’s wearing an old t-shirt and sweats of Dean’s, because he finally figured out they’re more comfortable than wearing an entire suit to bed, but refuses to get his own sleepwear and insists on stealing Dean’s things instead. (Dean’s possessive side isn’t really complaining.)

“Thank you.” Cas continues eating, oblivious.

Sam tries again. “We were just talking about calling you, didn’t expect you to get here so fast.”

Finally Cas shifts his attention, giving Sam his patented confused look. “I believe it only took a few minutes to walk here from my room, which is not unusual. I suppose I could have arrived sooner if I’d flown, but it didn’t seem necessary.”

Taking pity on his brother when Sam’s mouth opens yet again, Dean interjects, “Dude, Cas moved in like a week and a half ago. You didn’t even notice, did you?” Guilty silence. “Exactly. See? This is why you aren’t ready for a hunt yet.”

After a moment Sam collects himself. “Oh. Well shit. I guess I should’ve helped you get a room ready. Sorry about that.” He pauses a moment, weary and considering. “Although, I guess you kind of already moved in with us a few years ago, huh?” Sam smiles at some private joke, obviously expecting Dean and Cas to get it. “In the Impala,” he explains, “you claimed a permanent third spot, and that’s pretty much where we’ve lived all these years, so,” Sam shrugs. “Not like it’s gonna be a whole lot different. Although you might need a few things…”

Dean feels himself smiling too, because yeah, Cas basically moved in and made himself a nice little spot in their family years ago, but it still feels good to make it a bit more permanent. More overtly homey, though he wouldn’t trade the hours he’s spent bickering with Sam, listening to impossibly obscure history from the viewpoint of an angel, passing time and enjoying each other’s company in the Impala.

Cas gets up to take his plate to the sink and refill both his and Dean’s coffee mugs, because he’s awesome like that. He comes back to the table and sets down Dean’s mug, responding to his pleased “Thanks,” with a soft kiss to the cheek before resuming his seat.

“—should probably take you out to get some clothes and stuff, so you don’t have to borrow—oh,” Sam is saying, stopping dumbly at the easy display of affection between his brother and the angel. He blinks, taking in the picture of Cas leaning back into the arm Dean has casually laid along the back of his chair. Apparently he hadn’t expected their relationship to progress so quickly and easily, which Dean kind of wants to be offended by, but given his track record up to this point he guesses Sam can’t really be faulted. Also Sam’s been so spaced out lately he might as well be on Mars. “So by ‘your room’ you actually meant De—I see. You didn’t need help with the room because you guys are—”  
“Cas is good,” Dean finishes.

Nodding, Cas hooks an ankle around Dean’s underneath the table and leans a little more into his side, before answering Sam.

“I have everything I need.”

 

**VIII.** (Bonus)

“I understand the story of the two young lovers,” Cas says slowly, leaning forward from the backseat, “but I’m not sure I understand how it relates to baseball. Do they attend a game at the end?”

“It’s a metaphor, Cas,” Sam explains over Dean’s laughter. “But please don’t ask—”

Cas squints. “For what, I wonder?”

“For sex,” Dean promptly replies. Sam groans, because—

“I’ll show you later,” Dean winks into the rearview mirror.

—that. Because he desperately didn’t want to hear any more about _that_ , almost as much as he didn’t want to hear that song again.

“Here, I’ll play it again so you can follow along better this time.” Dean’s already punching the rewind button on the tape player.

“Seriously, Dean? Come on,” he protests, dangerously close to a whine, but really. They’ve only been in the car for two hours so far, and it’s another five back to the bunker where he’ll be able to escape the eye sex and teenage innuendoes that seem to plague his brother’s gay interspecies relationship.

Sam took out at least ten of those vampires on his own; he deserves a frickin’ break.

Instead, Dean is belting out his best Meat Loaf impression again.

And then fucking Cas is asking, “Will it be ‘paradise’, Dean? When you show me?” with this little smirk and oh good god, who taught the angel how to _flirt?_

Dean laughs loudly again. “You bet it will. _Though it’s cold and lonely in the deep dark niiight, I can see paradise by-y the dashboard liiight_ ,” he sings.

Sam throws salt packets at both of them.

///

After hearing _Bat Out of Hell_ for the third time through, Sam’s protests are riding the fine edge of violence. Dean honestly would’ve changed tapes after the second listen, but the constipated expression on Sam’s face was just too good. He changes it, and it takes all of his considerable skill behind the wheel not to drive off the road laughing at Sam’s face when Aerosmith’s Angel begins. Cas reaches forward and lays a hand alongside Dean’s neck, and when he glances in the mirror Cas’s face is crinkled in his happy little smile. Dean winks at him again, just for the hell of it, and feels warm all over when Cas squeezes his neck in response.

He’s got his brother at his side, his angel at his back, and his baby purring up a storm over the open road.

_This,_ Dean thinks, grinning so hard his face hurts.

_This is paradise._

_This is home._

Fucking perfect.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I include a couple of deleted scenes as a faux-chapter 2?  
> ...  
> ...  
> I'm gonna include a couple of deleted scenes as a faux-chapter 2.

  


* * *

  


Dean and Sam sit in the Impala, motionless. Dean doesn’t make a move to put the key in the ignition and he’s not even sure Sam’s breathing regularly. Neither brother has said a word for the past ten minutes.

Bobby is gone.

That shouldn’t be a sentence that is true, it’s a profane combination of words to describe reality, but there it is. He’s actually gone, and he’s not coming back.

Both brothers are completely overwhelmed, unable to believe that the last days have actually happened, but there’s a package in the front seat that Dean is assiduously avoiding looking at, containing whatever bullshit paperwork the hospital churned out for him (he doesn’t even want to come close to thinking the words _death certificate_ ) and the clothes Bobby had been wearing when they rushed him to the emergency room what felt like a year ago now. Dean keeps replaying the last fond look Bobby had given them and can’t shake the feeling that accepting this will have him teetering on the brink of a dark void; that remembering too many of the good times at Bobby’s house, like when he took Dean to the park to play baseball instead of the target practice John had mandated, is going to tip him over the edge and he’ll fall endlessly, never to resurface. Sam’s face is reflecting the same mixture of anguished disbelief and the struggle for acceptance, of how to know what to do, how to move on and be okay after this, because this will never be okay. It will never be the same; there will always be a little piece of the world missing.

He can’t even draw the slimmest comfort from his surroundings, because the Impala is stowed away under a dusty tarp in the Middle of Nowheresville, USA. Fucking Leviathan.

Everything is wrong. Dean tries to blank his mind, to not think about anything—not the foreign feeling in the air, not the hole in his chest, not the stifling inability to soothe Sam’s hurt or the emptiness of this cluttered van. His eyes flick reflexively to the rearview mirror, expecting to see a messy tuft of brown or adorably confused furrow.

Nothing’s there.

His chest clenches painfully, making it difficult to breathe for a moment. The sense of wrongness expands and abruptly Dean decides he can’t sit here any longer or he’ll go mad.

 

Xxxxxxxxxx

 

“Hey sweetheart, did you miss me?”

Dean can’t believe he almost forgot about this. There had been so many physical sensations to focus on at first: the sweet smell of fresh air; the glorious cool wetness of water on his parched and sticky throat; and the relief of being upright and moving and stretching out his limbs, exerting his muscles for simple healthy exercise. The unbearable screeching that came out of nowhere, shattering glass and threatening to explode Dean’s head. The origin of the noise is unknown, but it probably has something to do with the large handprint seared into his left shoulder. It looks red and inflamed, painful, but oddly enough it doesn’t hurt. Rather, it feels electric, like he’s half a live wire waiting to find the other half and when they finally touch they’re going to sizzle and spark up a storm. He’s both wildly curious about where it came from and justifiably anxious about meeting the one responsible.

Then his brain had kicked in and he’d called Bobby, managed to get himself to the old man’s door and convince him that Dean is Dean. He may or may not have gotten a little misty when Bobby practically hugged the life right back out of him, but then, Bobby’s eyes weren’t exactly dry either. (They have a tacit agreement not to talk about it.) With a little legwork and a lot of past shared experience he managed to track down the name of a cheap motel, and suddenly there was his giant little brother, right in front of him, and he was unabashedly wrapping Sammy up in a hug so reassuring it threatened to weaken his knees. He’d honestly never expected to experience any of it again, and the fact that he was here and whole and _alive_ was as incredible as it was humbling.

Coming back from Hell is a jolt to the senses.

But even after all that, there’s still one more thing he was missing, the last piece he needs to feel like himself again. And here she is.

The metal is hard and cool under his fingertips, trailing reverently over the Impala’s sleek lines and midnight black paint. Her chrome gleams even in the weak illumination of the nearby streetlights, and she sits quietly, as if she’s just been waiting for Dean to come back all this time. _To come home,_ whispers a tiny voice in the back of his mind.

Grinning like a fool, Dean opens the beautifully creaky door and slides into the driver’s seat, instantly feeling a sense of rightness completely anathema to all the vile things he’d experienced in Hell. Sitting here though, with the cushioned seat that immediately shifts and forms to the shape of his body, running his hands over the familiar bumps of the steering wheel and taking in features he knows by heart, all is as it should be.

…Until his roving eyes land on something that shouldn’t be there, a hard plastic protuberance that is disrupting Dean’s precious peace.

He instantly throws a bitchface at Sammy, distantly marveling at how easily his face slides back into the expression.

“What the hell is that?” he asks flatly.

“That’s an iPod jack,” Sam replies easily.

What a fucking nerve this guy has, to sit there at look like he’s done Dean a favor by defacing a true beauty with technology.

“You were supposed to take care of her, not douche her up,” he spits accusingly.

“Dean, I thought it was my car.” Now Sam looks offended.

He doesn’t even have a reply to that.

Grimly Dean fits the key in the ignition and brings the Impala to life, ready to let her throaty rumble soothe him. Instead, the fucking melodic strains of whatever indie love bullshit pretending to be music Sam’s been listening to emanates from the _iPod_ , and he sends another bitchface at Sam, who shrugs innocently. Wordlessly Dean grabs the entire apparatus, gives one good yank and tosses it into the backseat. He’ll dispose of it for good later.

Right now, it’s time to go find whoever—or whatever—left its mark on him.

  


* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

> Some of the things in this fic are real, believe it or not (at least according to my many Google searches). Here are some links if you're interested in tourist traps of the US:  
> [World's largest ball of twine](http://www.kansastravel.org/balloftwine.htm)  
> [World's largest hairball](https://www.mainstreet.com/slideshow/worst-tourist-attractions-america/page/3)  
> [Big Ernie](http://dayoopers.com/thetrap3.html)  
> [World's tallest thermometer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World%27s_tallest_thermometer)  
> [Carhenge](https://www.mainstreet.com/slideshow/worst-tourist-attractions-america/page/1)  
> [Paul Bunyan](http://midwestweekends.com/plan_a_trip/touring/roadside_attractions/paul_bunyan_minnesota.html)  
> [Largest cherry pies](http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/29043)
> 
> And, just for fun (it has nothing to do with this fic obviously), the real [Mystery Spot](https://www.mysteryspot.com/).


End file.
